


forty miles

by peterstank



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Blanket Forts, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Heart to Hearts, Hurt/Comfort, IronDad and SpiderSon, Mostly Fluff, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Sick Fic, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, bc fuck the russos, in which i ignore the fact that tony fucking died
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-19 08:25:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19353196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterstank/pseuds/peterstank
Summary: “I love you,” Peter says. “Father-son styles.”Or: the one where Morgan is sick and Tony is in way over his head, so he calls his spiderson for a little bit of help.





	forty miles

He’s in the middle of decathlon practise when his phone rings.

 

Peter is on his knees filling up the last of the white board space with the solution to MJ’s most complex chemistry question to date. To his right, Flash is still trying to figure out the answer to part A.

 

He has a big lead on Flash and he can’t lie: there’s a small, teeny tiny part of him that takes satisfaction in demolishing Flash.

 

Academically, anyway.

 

Which is why he ignores it when his phone starts buzzing insistently in his back pocket, and he’s  _almost done_ —

 

The ringing stops and then starts again. Peter sighs and puts the lid of his marker between his teeth before fumbling to answer. _Mr. Stank,_ the ID reads.

 

Peter’s first thought is one of panic and so he picks up without fully considering the fact that Tony Stark is calling him and he’s still surrounded by his classmates; but then, Tony knows he has AcaDec on Wednesdays, so why would he call unless someone is like, dying?

 

“Hey, no phones during practise!” Mr. Harrington calls.

 

Peter ignores him. “Hello?”

 

He’s immediately met with the sound of loud sobbing, high and distressed. Then comes Tony trying to stifle what can only be Morgan wailing. “Hey, kid, what’s up?”

 

“Um, I don’t know, you called me.”

 

“Yeah right, sorry.” Tony mutters something to Morgan. “Listen, I know this is last minute, but we’re gonna have to cancel for tonight. Pep’s out of town and Morguna’s got the flu, or something—it was those damn kindergarteners, I swear. So gross. Sticky hands, snotty noses, _ugh_ —”

 

“You know, I could just come and help.”

 

“What? No. I don’t want you getting sick, and besides, I told Pepper I had a lid on things. Also it’s disgusting here. There are too many bodily fluids—oh great, she threw up.”

 

Peter winces. He’d picked up on the sound of Morgan retching as it happened. A part of him is relieved no one is in any immediate danger, but another part of him is sort of _super-incredibly stressed_ at the idea of Tony taking care of Morgan all by himself when she’s  _that_ sick and he’s still learning how to live with a prosthetic arm.

 

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

 

“No, seriously, it’s fine. We have cold rags and pepto bismol—”

 

“Do _not_ give her pepto bismol,” Peter orders, absently continuing the equation. “That stuff makes you shit tar.”

 

“Excuse me.”

 

“You heard me. What, you don’t believe me? Can you afford to be wrong?”

 

“This is—okay, fuck, shit—” there’s a fumbling sound, like maybe Tony has dropped his phone. “So maybe I’m a little in over my head, whatever. Pep and I usually tag-team stuff like this.”

 

“I’m coming.”

 

“ _Kid.”_

 

“I’m bringing DayQuil and soup. This is non-negotiable.”

 

“I shouldn’t have called you.”

 

“Well then I would’ve just come anyway,” Peter points out. “Besides, you need help, I can hear your panic from forty miles away. Done, MJ.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Not talking to you, hold on.”

 

He doesn’t care that most of his teammates are looking at him like he’s crazy, either because of the pepto comment or the fact that he managed to finish the problem while only half-paying attention.

 

MJ squints as she checks his work. “Nice job, Good Will Hunting.”

 

Peter rolls his eyes. “Okay, I’ll be there in like twenty minutes.”

 

“Oh, are you talking to me again?”

 

“Aren’t you cleaning up vomit? Please tell me you are and it’s not just sitting there, otherwise I might die a little bit inside.”

 

“It’s uh... we’re getting there.”

 

“ _Gross.”_

 

“What?! She’s covered in it! Bath is priority one—no, don’t put your hands in your hair, baby—stop judging me. I can feel you judging me from forty miles away.”

 

“I’m hanging up now.”

 

“On your boss? I can fire you, you know.”

 

“Your wife is my boss. You’re just a one-armed mechanic.”

 

“ _Rude.”_

 

Peter presses end call and the line goes dead. He pockets his phone and wastes no time gathering his things, mindless of Mr. Harrington’s protests. “Family emergency,” he says, and doesn’t bother to think of the connotations behind those words before rushing out.

 

* * *

 

Peter fetches the soup from Delmar’s and the medicine from the little 24/7 RX by May’s apartment. Technically he isn’t actually old enough to buy the stuff, but the manager, Paul, knows him and May well enough to let him take the medicine without question.

 

Peter swings upstate. He keeps the soup warm in a thermos tucked away in his backpack, and uses up nearly a third of his web fluid for the journey. Normally Happy would pick him up but Peter doesn’t like inconveniencing the man when there are ready alternatives.

 

Plus, it’s fun. 

 

The lake house is quiet. The sun is just beginning to set, washing the water in bright golden hues. Morgan’s tent is still up, and there’s an abandoned Rescue helmet prototype on the front porch.

 

The front door is locked so Peter fishes the key out of his pocket. He’d almost choked when Tony first gave it to him, but now it’s as normal as walking into May’s apartment; it’s just another place that holds home.

 

Peter sets his backpack down on the floor and puts the grocery bag on the counter. He’d actually gotten more than medicine: juice boxes _and_ juice pops in case Morgan’s throat hurts, tissues, and liquid nasal decongestant. He quickly puts the frozens away and then travels deeper into the house.

 

It doesn’t take long before he finds Tony talking to Morgan in the bathroom. He can hear the sound of her giggling and splashing the water. All good signs there.

 

So Peter elects not to disturb them and busies himself by stripping Morgan’s bed of its spit-up soaked sheets. He cleans the floor, too, and re-makes her bed up with Spider-Man themed linens.

 

“Oh thank god,” Tony blurts when he finds Peter tucking in Morgan’s duvet. She’s perched on his hip, wrapped in one of those towels with the teddy bear ear hoods, wiping her flushed cheeks miserably.

 

But then she sees him and her eyes light up. “Petey?”

 

It isn’t the excited squeal he’s grown used to. She speaks in a miserable, raspy croak instead, looking like she might actually cry.

 

It sort of breaks his heart.

 

“Hey, Mongoose.” He stands, walking over to gingerly take her from Tony, who looks dead on his feet: pale, bruised eyes, messy hair that sticks up in every direction. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Okay,” Morgan whines, because she’s  _that_ kid: the one that wants everyone to stop worrying and be happy even when she isn’t. Peter vaguely realises he had been _that_ kid too, waving May off and claiming he was fine while running a 103-degree fever and seeing spots.

 

“Yeah?” Peter kisses her cheek, because he can’t help it. She’s unnaturally warm. “Guess what I got?”

 

“Daddy said medicine,” she says, flopping onto her side. “I don’t like it. Tastes bad. Don’t want it.”

 

Her hands are covering her face, pressing into her eyes. Tony comes over. He’s clutching fresh clothes that he’d pulled from the dresser.

 

“Yeah, I know, but I didn’t get the gross grape stuff, I promise. This tastes like oranges.”

 

That’s good enough for her. The hands fall away and she moans, pressing her face into the pillow. Tony reaches out and smooths her hair back, before feeling for her temperature.

 

“I got something else, too,” Peter proclaims brightly. Morgan lifts her head with a reluctant interest. “Juice pops!”

 

Her face lights up. “Really?”

 

“Yeah. Your favorite kind. And there’s soup for when you get hungry—not the gross Campbell’s stuff, either. Homemade chicken noodle.”

 

“You’re _so_ spoiling her,” Tony remarks, and maybe he sort of is, but Peter doesn’t have any reservations about going the extra mile where Morgan is concerned, especially when she’s sick.

 

Morgan tries to throw her arms around him, only it’s apparently too much work. She ends up nuzzling into the crook of his neck, her tiny warm nose pressed against his pulse-point. “Thank you, Petey.”

 

“Only the best for Morguna,” Peter says.

 

Tony urges her to sit up. He coaxes the thermometer into her mouth. She looks sort of adorable, sitting there with her eyes drooping sleepily and her lips turned into a pout.

 

“You okay, kiddo?”

 

Peter blinks. It’s Tony, asking _him,_ because he’d totally been staring off into space while they waited for her temperature reading to pop up. Peter shrugs. “Tired. I had a Spanish test today and I think I bombed it.”

 

Tony nods. He doesn’t look disappointed, and some part of Peter is sort of relieved. “Can’t be a genius in everything.”

 

“Please,” Peter scoffs. “You’re fluent in like, five languages _that I know of.”_

 

“Well, I started with Italian,” Tony defends. “It made Spanish easier.”

 

Morgan tries to talk around the thermometer, but Tony shushes her. She just pouts more, grouchily folding her arms across her chest. Finally it beeps. “102,” Tony reads. “Not great, not terrible.”

 

“Feels bad,” Morgan says.

 

Peter nods. “Want a juice pop?”

 

Just like that she forgets to be mad and nods eagerly. “Yes please!”

 

* * *

 

Once Morgan is settled in for an afternoon nap, Peter retreats downstairs and takes out his textbooks. He doesn’t have a ton of homework, but it’s still enough to keep him occupied for a good forty-five minutes.

 

At some point Tony comes down and ruffles Peter’s hair before retreating into the kitchen. Peter can hear him rustling around, humming the words to an Italian song under his breath.

 

He’s just finishing up his Lit when Tony appears in the doorway and leans against the frame with his arms crossed. “Have you been sleeping?”

 

The question takes Peter by surprise. He looks up from his notebook. “What?”

 

“You look tired, kid.”

 

Peter actually snorts. “When was the last time you looked in a mirror?”

 

Tony tuts. “Don’t give me that, Sass Bucket,” he says, coming over to sit behind where Peter is sprawled on the floor. “It’s _why_ I’m asking. I know things were already hard enough—”

 

“It’s fine, Tony, really,” Peter assures. He’d only graduated from Mr. Stark to _Tony_ like, three months ago, and it still feels strange. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

 

“False,” Tony says. “I _do,_ kiddo. I always worry about you.”

 

Peter gingerly lowers his pencil. He turns around. “What do you mean?”

 

“It’s not—” Tony runs a hand down his face. “God. It’s not easy being holed up here on house arrest while my wife flies halfway across the world and my daughter has the flu, and then there’s _you_ —I hardly see you anymore, Pete. I know the distance is a problem, but I…”

 

Peter blinks stupidly. “Tony?”

 

“I just sort of miss the days when it was only me and you,” Tony says quietly, _sadly._ “That’s not to say I don’t love Morgan to bits, or that I’d trade my time with her for anything, but I hate that you’re so far away, and I can’t jump in to protect you like I used to. I _hate_ the forty miles, kiddo.”

 

Peter thinks about that. He thinks about the days when, after Toomes and Tony’s engagement to Pepper, they would spend whole afternoons tinkering together in the labs at the compound—the compound that’s now totally destroyed and only in the beginning stages of being rebuilt. He hates that Tony is so far away, too. There was something about it—a lack of security, a big cosmic stretch that separates the two of them. The distance _gapes_ like the five years he’d lost, when the world had changed in the blink of an eye. It _bleeds_ like the bullet wounds Tony used to help him patch up, with half-hearted warnings about _what’s the point of your spidey senses if you get shot and stabbed all the time, anyway?_

 

 _Well I’m not dead,_ Peter would reply.

 

Still, there’s a part of Peter that doesn’t really understand why it matters to Tony so much. It isn’t like he’s his… his _father,_ or anything.

 

“Kid? You’re spacing.”

 

“Sorry. Tired.”

 

Tony groans in frustration. “See? This is what I’m talking about.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Tony looks at him, bent forward slightly with his head tilted, eyes impossibly soft. “You can _talk_ to me, kiddo.”

 

“I—we talk. I talk. We’re talking right now.”

 

“About _big_ stuff. Heavy stuff.”

 

“There’s nothing big,” Peter brushes off in a rush. “Nothing heavy. I’m fine.”

 

Fine, even when he’s running a fever and battling black spots. Fine, even when he can’t sleep because all his dreams are nightmares, riddled with dark; dark veins, standing out against pale skin. Eyes distant and dark. The arc reactor flickering out, the _sun_ dying, leaving the world awash in darkness.

 

Suddenly there’s a weight on his head; it’s Tony’s hand, the good one, the one that hadn’t rotted away from the radiation. Fingers card through his hair, slow and easy.

 

“Peter.”

 

Peter forces himself to meet Tony’s eyes. His own burn, suddenly, and his skin is searing like it had been _him_ injected with Extremis that day, like the flames still live inside him. His chest caves in like a star’s last breath and he rests his cheek on Tony’s knee. “I’m _tired,”_  he whispers, shaky and sad. “I’m tired and I miss you. All the time.”

 

“Oh, Pete…”

 

“It’s not fair, because when the bad dreams come like before I can’t just call you, I can’t just _swing by_ because you’re not there anymore. You’re so far away, and I keep seeing you _die_ and it feels like _I’m_ dying too, and all I want is to make sure you’re okay, but _you have to rest.”_

 

It all spills out of him, a clumsy tumble, an avalanche. The tears stain Tony’s but the fingers don’t stop moving, the soft touch doesn’t go away. If anything it _pulls,_ urges the words out that burn his throat and drown his stomach, that send his heart to his mouth and every truth is a beat, a pump, _alive._

 

“Peter.”

 

Tony’s voice holds something. It makes Peter look up, tilting his head back. “Peter, you can _always_ call me. I don’t care how late it is, it’s _never_ an inconvenience—”

 

“But you—”

 

“And so did you,” Tony whispers. “In my _arms,_ bambino. You think it was easy? You think it still is? Petey, I don’t sleep either. I can’t sleep because it’s always _you._ For six years, Peter. Every night. Do you have any idea what I would have given to be able to pick up the phone and call you when you were gone?” Tony shakes his head. “I would have traded every penny, all my suits, just to hear you _once.”_

 

Peter doesn’t know when they both ended up on the floor. He doesn’t question it, just wraps his arms around Tony and cries until he can’t anymore, until it’s just choked dry sobs. He’s so _tired._ Sometimes his body aches with the phantom pain of being ripped apart atom by atom and reduced to dust.

 

“Breathe,” Tony reminds him, before the panic attack can sneak up and grasp him by the throat, wrap itself around his chest and squeeze with all its might. “Breathe, it’s okay.”

 

Peter breathes. It feels a lot like that first one, when he’d opened his eyes on Titan to find a sky that was a rolling orange sea, his suit covered in dust, his mouth full of iron even though there was no blood; when he’d woken up to find himself _alone_ — _wherestonywherestonywherestony_

 

(dying)

 

“Kiddo?”

 

Peter gets ahold of himself. It takes a minute. His hands are clenched at his sides, red raw moons on his palms, every inhale a desperate rattling wind like he’s still ten again, suffering through an asthma attack.

 

Tony rubs his back and cups his cheek, ignoring the tear tracks and the heat of it. “Are you good?”

 

He nods, breaths levelled out, hand clutching the hem of Tony’s oil-stained band shirt.

 

“Good.”

 

* * *

 

Not long after that, Pepper calls. Tony fills her in and reminds Peter to pretend not to be there, but the jig is up when he steps on a Lego and hisses out a swear.

 

“What was that?”

 

“What? Uh—nothing, honey—”

 

“Don’t ‘honey’ me,” Pepper snaps. “Is Peter there with you?”

 

“Of course not—”

 

“Peter, sweetie, you should’ve stayed home,” Pepper scolds, but it’s half-hearted and he knows, under her concern for him, she’s glad he’s there to help. “You could get sick too, and you have finals coming up.”

 

“It’s fine, Mrs. Stark, really, I promise.”

 

There’s a sigh. “Peter, how many times do I have to remind you it’s _Pepper?_ Mrs. Stark makes me feel like I’m at work.”

 

Tony laughs at that, and Peter just promises to try and remember. She hangs up a little bit later to go to some board meeting in Tokyo. Tony tries to act like it doesn’t bother him, like he’s okay, but he knows it isn’t because this is the first time since the battle that Pepper has been gone for more than a few hours.

 

They’re on their third episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine when screams pierce the air.

 

It’s Peter who’s up first, younger and enhanced. He bounds up the stairs, Tony on his heels, and bursts into Morgan’s room to find her sobbing in her bed, hugging herself.

 

There’s more vomit on her sheets.

 

Peter doesn’t even think before swooping down to pick her up, pulling her into his arms as smoothly as he can, out of the mess of her sick. Tony is right next to him, pressing his hands to Morgan’s cheeks and forehead while she cries.

 

“Hey, Mongoose,” Peter pulls back to look at her, red and teary, exploding with heat. “It’s me, okay? Eveything’s fine, I promise. Just breathe.”

 

Tony is talking to FRIDAY and then springing into action, stripping Morgan’s bed again, carrying the sheets downstairs, returning with a glass of water and a damp rag.

 

Peter sets Morgan down on the bare mattress. She’s still shaking, but the crying has mostly subsided to hiccups. Tony helps her with the water, muttering softly and making sure she doesn’t choke when she swallows. Peter presses the rag to her forehead and watches her eyes flutter closed like it’s the best kind of relief.

 

“Bad dream?” Tony prods, when she’s quieted down.

 

Morgan nods.

 

“Remember what it was about?”

 

She shakes her head this time.

 

Tony strokes her cheek. “Okay. That’s okay. Do you wanna try and sleep some more?”

 

Another shake of the head has them carrying her and her spare blankets downstairs. Peter gets to work making a little fort in front of the TV while Tony soothes her, pressing kisses to her forehead while he paces and waits.

 

Eventually there’s a little Morgan Nest on the floor. She crawls into it gladly and keeps her eyes, red-rimmed and glassy, trained on the television.

 

Tony sighs. “What the hell have I been doing with my life? Why haven’t I invented a cure for the flu, yet?”

 

“That can be our next project,” Peter suggests, flopping down on the couch. Morgan peeks up at him through the gap in her sheets and he reaches down so she can hold his hand. “You good, Morgie?”

 

She shrugs, choosing to play with his fingers rather than answer. Peter doesn’t mind.

 

Tony brings in the soup for her a little while later. Morgan takes it silently and tries to eat, but barely gets through half the bowl. “Don’t feel good,” she mumbles.

 

Tony is on the floor with her, a hand on her knee. “You need to throw up again?”

 

Morgan shakes her head. She just looks drained and upset. Peter leans in and kisses the back of her head, smelling her watermelon shampoo. Morgan leans into the touch.

 

There’s a small lapse of silence. On the TV, Jake accidentally calls Holt ‘Dad.’ Morgan drifts off to sleep again.

 

* * *

 

“I have a headache,” Peter tells him, when it’s dark outside and crickets are chirping pleasantly beneath a star-less velvet sky.

 

Tony feels his forehead, something he’s done at least a thousand times today. It’s not warm at all.

 

Peter shakes his head. He’s resting, half in Tony’s lap, with his legs hanging over the arm of the couch. “It’s just loud.”

 

Tony thinks it must be the stress of the day that’s bringing it on, now; there have been too many emotions, too many confusing highs and lows. “Want me to turn the TV off?”

 

“Just down,” Peter whispers. His eyes are shut. “Your house hums.”

 

Tony blinks. “What?”

 

“FRIDAY. I can hear her. And the air in the vents. And your heartbeat. And Morgan’s. And mine. It’s all just really, really fucking loud.”

 

Tony flips the TV off. Peter frowns.

 

“I wasn’t even watching, kiddo, don’t worry.”

 

“Well that’s a shame,” Peter says. “It’s a really good show.”

 

He hums. Normally when Peter’s like this, he doesn’t like to be touched too much. Tony can tell by the way his face is screwed up that he’s feeling nauseous.

 

“Do you want the headphones?”

 

“Too heavy,” he whispers.

 

“You need corks,” Tony proclaims quietly.

 

“For my ears? Does that even work?”

 

“Honestly? I have no clue.”

 

Peter takes a few long breaths. Tony knows it’s not as bad as it could be, right now, especially when he continues talking. “Hey, you know what I don’t get? Remember in Spongebob when he’s having a sleepover with Patrick and Patrick is snoring, so Spongebob puts corks in his ears? But like, they’re just holes, so why doesn’t he have to plug up all of his holes? Can’t he hear out of all of them? Or is there an actual ear canal inside a sponge?”

 

Tony stares. His horror is threefold: the first reason being that he does, in fact, know what episode of Spongebob Peter is talking about; the second being the idea of a sponge having internal organs; the third being that he, too, is sort of curious about the cork plot hole.

 

“Get out of my house.”

 

Peter just laughs.

 

Tony very gently smooths Peter’s hair back from his forehead, relieved when he doesn’t flinch. “You okay, bambino?”

 

“Just… can we just be still? For just a few minutes.”

 

Tony nods. He makes a last movement, leaning his head back to rest on the couch and placing his hand over Peter’s heart, hoping that might muffle the sound a bit.

 

After a little while, Peter’s short, shallow breaths grow more even. He opens his eyes. “Hey, Tony?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Peter seems to chew on his words for a minute, like there’s something serious he wants to say. He settles for light-hearted instead.

 

“What if we lived in an alternate universe where the word for ‘murder’ was ‘muckduck’?”

 

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that.”

 

“‘Die’ is ‘derp’,” Peter goes on. “ _Oh, shit, I’ve lost too much blood, I’m gonna derp.”_

 

“I’m literally _begging_ you to stop.”

 

Peter smiles. His eyes close again. For another minute he lies very still. It’s quiet to Tony, but to him, it probably sounds like fucking Jurassic Park.

 

“What if I was your son?”

 

Tony blinks at the ceiling and chokes on his own heart. “Pardon?”

 

“You know, like, ‘Tony Stark, billionaire, playboy: discovers long-lost son through YouTube.’”

 

He forces himself not to scoff, but really, the idea doesn’t really bother him at all. In fact, there’s a little (big, fucking huge) part of him that wishes it were true.

 

“Tony.”

 

“Yeah, kiddo?”

 

Peter’s eyes are on him again. There’s a heaviness in his chest, some sort of distant longing, like he’s just been shown another universe where everything is totally different and yet exactly the same

 

(peter, there from the start, brown eyes and a wide smile and smaller than tony’s ever seen him, toddling around the workshop in malibu, resting his head on tony’s chest, tapping the arc reactor and saying—)

 

“I love you,” Peter says. “Father-son styles.”

 

Tony thinks, maybe, he’s crying. “Yeah?”

 

“Yeah.” Peter bites his lip. “Is that okay?”

 

“Of course,” Tony says, and he moves his hand to wipe away the tear on Peter’s cheek, the one that matches his own. He thinks, really, that he doesn’t deserve it. Peter is too _good._ He’d swung forty miles to help Tony take care of his sick daughter (swung forty miles to look after his fluey kid sister), kissed her cheek and held her hand and Tony doesn’t deserve that, but fuck if he doesn’t wish—

 

—(what if I was your son)—

 

that it had been that way. From the start.

 

“I love you too,” Tony whispers. “Father-son styles.”

 

Peter’s smile is brighter than the sun after five years of darkness, brighter than that first arc reactor’s light in the shadowy cave, brighter than hope.

 

Peter’s smile is love.

 

“Cool,” he says, and finally sleeps.

 

**Author's Note:**

> imma be honest w y’all idk what this is,,,i was just sick and kinda lonely and like it was supposed to be a crack fic to start off with but then it got Angsty so *shrug* i hope it was ok?? also i have no idea how long it takes to get from queens to upstate ny but whatever lol 
> 
> lmk what u thought ily guys <3


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